Again, he didn’t examine the ring, just kept looking at her. “You know I want to help you, but it’s not as simple as you’re making it out to be. There are tax implications—”

“For me, not you. And the ring is mine. It was given to me in contemplation of marriage, and I married Richard Pford yesterday. Even if we divorce tomorrow, it stays with me legally.”

“You’re asking me to be complicit in insurance fraud, though. This must be insured—there’s no way this asset isn’t scheduled.”

“Again, my problem, not yours. And to make things easier, I’m telling you right now that I’ll cancel the policy, whatever and wherever it is. You have no reason to think I won’t follow through on this, and no way to know if I don’t.”

Finally, he looked at the stone, holding it up to his naked eye.

“This is a good deal for the both of us,” she said.

Ryan got to his feet. “Let me look at it under the microscope. But I have to take it out of the setting.”

“Do whatever you need to.”

Leaving the champagne behind, she followed him into an anteroom that was used for private consultations during business hours, typically by men buying diamonds for their girlfriends.

Richard, you cheap bastard, she thought. That stone better be real.

Back at Easterly, Lane entered the kitchen and followed the sound of chopping to where Miss Aurora was making quick work of a bag of carrots, reducing the lengths to perfectly even, quarter-inch-thick orange disks.

“Okay,” he said, “so we’re you, Lizzie, me, John, and Jeff for dinner. I don’t think Max is coming, and I have no idea where Gin or Amelia are.”

To kill time while Lenghe was looking over all the documentation on the Rembrandt, Lane had gone down to the row of cottages to try to talk to Max. When he’d found the guy sound asleep, he’d tried Edward, but had gotten no answer—and as Lane didn’t know when he was going to get a response from his potential poker opponent, he didn’t want to leave the estate.

“Dinner’s ready and holding,” Miss Aurora said as she reached for another carrot out of the mesh net. “I did us a roast beef with mashed potatoes and stewed beans. This here’s for Gary. My puree is the only vegetable he’ll eat, and he’s likewise joining us for dinner.”

“You got any cobbler left?”

“Made a fresh one. Figured you boys will be hungry.”

Bracing his palms on the granite, Lane leaned into his arms and watched Miss Aurora work that blade like a metronome on a piano top, the rhythm always the same.

He cleared his throat. “So Lizzie and Greta made up a list of the staff who are going to have to go.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A lot of people are being laid off.”

“Who’s staying?”

“You, Lizzie, Reginald, Greta, and Gary. Gary’ll wanna keep Timbo, and that makes sense. Everyone else goes. Turns out Greta loves paper-work—she’ll become the new controller for accounts half time. Lizzie says she’ll take over cleaning the house and helping Gary and Timbo with the mowing.”

“Atta girl.” Miss Aurora paused in the chopping and looked up. “And that’s a good crew. We can handle it all.”

Lane exhaled in relief. “That’s what I think. Mother will retain her nurses, of course.”

“I wouldn’t rattle her cage too much. Keep things the same up there.” “We’re going to be saving … almost a hundred thousand dollars each month. But I feel bad, you know? I’m going to talk to each one of them myself.”

“You’ll hire ’em back. Not to worry.”

“I don’t know about that, Miss Aurora.”

“You’ll see.”

As she resumed chopping, she frowned and moved her shoulder around as if it was stiff. And then Miss Aurora paused, put down the knife and seemed like she was having to catch her balance with the help of the countertop.

“Miss Aurora? Are you okay—”

“I’m fine, boy. Just fine.”

Shaking her head as if she were clearing it, she picked up the knife and took a deep breath. “Now, go get your friend from out of town. That roast is drying in my holding oven, and I don’t want to be wasting all that meat.”

Lane searched her face. God, he felt like she lost more weight every time he laid eyes on her. “Miss Aurora—”

“The out-of-towner is here,” Lenghe said as he came into the kitchen. “And he is hungry—and ready to play poker.”

Turning around, Lane made a mental note to follow up with Miss Aurora. Maybe she needed more help in the kitchen?

“So,” Lane said as he clapped his palms. “We going to do this?” “The documentation could not be more impressive.” Lenghe took a seat at the counter after greeting Miss Aurora with a “ma’am.” “And the value is there.”

“I also checked with my tax guy.” Who had been a buddy of Jeff’s up in New York. “At our tax rate, which is the highest, long-term capital gains on a collectible is twenty-eight percent. My grandmother, as you know from the paperwork, paid a million dollars for the painting when she bought it. Accordingly, the tax man is going to be looking for ten million, nine hundred and twenty thousand from me.”

“So fifty million, nine hundred twenty is the magic number.” “Looks that way.”

Lenghe put his hand out. “You put up the painting, and I’m prepared to wire that sum to the account of your choice Monday morning if I lose. Or, if you’d feel more comfortable doing an escrow overseas, where there’s a market open right now, we can do that, too.”

Lane shook the older man’s palm. “Deal. No escrow necessary, I trust you.”

As they shook, Lenghe looked over at Miss Aurora. “You’re our witness, ma’am.”

“Yes.” Then she nodded at Lane. “And as much as I enjoy catering to our guests here at Easterly, you’ll be understandin’ that when y’all play, I’ll be prayin’ for my boy.”

Lenghe bowed his head. “I would expect nothing different.”

“Wash up for dinner,” she commanded as she put the knife down and turned to the stove. “I’m serving family style tonight in the small dining room.”